Fire Drill

For the past couple of months, I have been sad.

Not clinically depressed. Let me be clear about that before anyone tries to bring me a casserole. Just sad. The ordinary kind. The kind that means I am a human being who is awake and paying attention and living this life the way it’s actually meant to be lived — which is to say, occasionally with a lump in the throat.

And I have moved through this sadness with all the grace and dignity you’d expect.

Phase one: I did nothing.

Just sat in it. Marinated. Became one with the couch.

Phase two: I worked.

And worked. And worked. And then worked some more, because if I am busy enough, technically there is no time slot available for feelings. They simply can’t get a meeting on the calendar.

Phase three: I went full hermit.

Books. Movies. Shows. My AI bestie. Me, my space, and a carefully curated rotation of things that do not require me to leave the house or be perceived. I retreated so far into my little terrarium that I should’ve started charging admission.

And here’s the tell, the thing that always gives me away: I quietly stopped doing everything I can technically get away with not doing. The cooking. The cleaning. The laundry that got washed, sure, and then took up permanent residence in the basket like it was paying rent. Taking decent care of myself dropped somewhere near the bottom of the list, right under “alphabetize the spice rack.”

If you’ve ever let the laundry mountain reach a certain elevation, you know it isn’t about laundry. The laundry is a symptom.

And then, right on schedule — the restlessness.

This is the part I actually want to talk about. Because every single time, after the doing-nothing and the over-working and the hermit arc, the same thing arrives like clockwork: the itch. The need to escape. Or — and this is the important part — the need for proof that I COULD escape.

Anyone else get this? Please tell me it’s not just me.

When things hit a certain weight, when life crosses over from “a lot” into “too much,” I become an escapist. Full-blown. I want to run. Not toward anything, particularly. Just away, and fast.

Now. I’ll be honest for a second, because the rest of this is light and this part isn’t.

In my twenties, “run” meant the bottom of a bottle. I’d like to report that this worked beautifully. It did not. It took every single problem I was trying to outrun and handed each one a little protein shake, so they were all bigger and meaner when they caught up with me, which they always did. Ten out of ten do not recommend. The exits I reach for now are gentler — books, and vacations. I traded the bottle for a boarding pass, and that, friends, is what we call growth.

So this past weekend, I ran a fire drill.

That’s really what it was. A fire drill isn’t a fire. Nobody’s house is burning down. A fire drill is just you, calmly walking to the exit, confirming the door opens, and walking back — so that some quieter part of your brain can finally relax and stop screaming but what if we’re trapped.

My fire drill was Yellowstone.

I packed up and went on an actual adventure, out into the enormous open weird wonderful world, specifically to prove a few things to myself. That there is more out there than my cozy little terrarium. That the small, safe world I’ve built for myself is a choice, not a cage. That if I ever wanted to run — or needed to — I absolutely, one hundred percent, could.

I did my best Belle impression, striding out of the village fully convinced there had to be something more than the same small provincial routine. And you know what? I got it. I got out. I found some room to breathe. I stood somewhere vast and steaming and slightly sulfur-scented and got my proof, stamped and notarized: the door opens. You are not trapped. You can leave any time you want.

Did it cure the sadness?

No. Let’s not get carried away.

Am I still sad? Yes. Was I expecting Old Faithful to erupt and take my grief with it? No, honestly — and if I’m being real, I’m not sure this particular sadness is ever going to pack up and leave entirely this time.

And I’ve decided that’s okay.

Because some things are worth being sad about. The sadness isn’t a malfunction. It’s a receipt. It’s proof that whatever caused it actually mattered, that it had weight and meaning, that I was awake for it. A sadness that won’t fully leave is sometimes just love or loss that refuses to be filed under “no big deal.” I’ll take it. I’ll carry it. I imagine it’ll quiet down in time, even if it never goes all the way silent.

But maybe some of you are built like me. Maybe you can make genuine peace with the sadness — and also need cold, hard proof that you’re not trapped in the life you’ve built. Both things. At the same time. The contentment and the escape hatch, side by side.

If that’s you: go run your fire drill. Find your exit. Confirm the door opens. Then, if you’re anything like me, walk right back into your little terrarium, sit down among all your favorite things, and feel a thousand times better knowing you stayed because you chose to. Not because you were stuck.

So there it is. My recent saga.

And because you sat through all of that with me — you’ve earned the good part. Here are the pictures from my little adventure.